


Honey in The Lion's Mouth

by Requiem (GoldenHavoc)



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: A little funny, Accidental Bonding, Accidental Choking, And a little bit of plot, Batjokes Exchange entry, Biting, Dubious Consent, Fellatio, Gift Exchange, Gift Fic, I can't help but pick on Jeremiah so be warned he's not liked here, I pity the camera, Jeremiah is a douchebag, Jerome doesn't like him either way but that's pretty much canon so, Jerome gets emotional, Jerome lives because fuck canon honestly, M/M, Oral Sex, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Porn with Feelings, Post-Canon, Post-Season 4 Ending, Rough Kissing, Sex Tape, Swearing, With every chapter, a little sad, blowjob, but there's more to it than meets the eye, it's Jerome what did you expect, poetic writing just to warn you, scar tracing, scratches, you read you'll see
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-09
Updated: 2018-09-21
Packaged: 2019-07-10 05:38:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15942881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoldenHavoc/pseuds/Requiem
Summary: "Putting honey in the lion’s mouth, Brucie?“ Jerome’s voice runs warm behind Bruce‘s ear. It rolls over his neck and close to his spine like a solemn but ardent reminder of death. "It’ll eat you up. It eats everything.“ He pauses, years caught in one halt of breath. “It ate me.“It‘s a trap. Bruce should know better than to encourage him. He should take flight now, hit Jerome in the unprotected pit of his stomach and take flight while he tumbles over in pain since otherwise he’ll never leave this circle of hate and sickened obsession they’ve built with their fists and half-deaths. But he can‘t find no reason to. He doesn‘t want to dig that deep. For once in his life, he doesn‘t want to strive for being any better than he actually is.He’s the young hero Gotham sets its hopes on, and Jerome is a murderer who’s lost the wheel ages ago. Outdated roles for an outdated story.'What a terrible, terrific match we make', he muses, yanks Jerome back on his hair and kisses him with all the self-disgust and desperation he can muster. 'We’ll never get along. We‘ll destroy each other, and call it love.'But when Jerome kisses back, starved and angry, Bruce knows that it won‘t matter. He already made the choice.





	1. Sour Apple

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HelmetParty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HelmetParty/gifts).



> Good day, night, or evening,
> 
> this is my entry for the Batjokes Gotham Exchange ( @batjokesgothamexchange ) on Tumblr. My giftee is @rreylos
> 
> Since my story got a little out of control concerning the length (over 15k after some editing now) I decided to split it into three chapters in total, posting the first chapter on 9th September (Sunday), the second chap on 12th September (Wednesday) and the last chapter on 14th September (Friday) to round it all up. I hope you're okay with this, and that you'll like what I put together here. Have fun reading, dear :)
> 
> \- Prompt #1: nsfw- bottom!bruce
> 
> \- Prompt #2: jerome being really physical and loving kisses/hugs
> 
> (I mashed them up a lil so they're both here. Expect Porn with somewhat Emotions since I can't help myself apparently.)
> 
>  
> 
> PS: I apologize for any grammatical mistake or error in expression you might find in here since English isn't my first language.

It all starts with Jeremiah’s absence. 

 _Of course_ it starts with Jeremiah in general because if there‘s a crisis to be had, the self-proclaimed clown prince of crime is always more than willing to cater to Bruce‘s dreadful needs. 

He's gone underground for a while now, and not knowing where he is may be worse than not knowing when he'll strike next time. Shadowy figures in the alleys mumble he has left town but Bruce doesn't believe them for a second. He's been idle before, biding his time, he won't stay idle anymore. Last time he thought that Jeremiah had been silent for two months straight until he placed four grenades in the town hall and blew them off all at once from a distance while probably drinking a capri sun to not smudge his lipstick and enjoy the sunset in peace. The mayor nearly died through bloodloss, three officers got away with slight to moderate injuries; one of the secretaries sat too close to the detonation’s scope and lost her right leg. One hour later, Jeremiah stated via a radio station he didn’t like the campaign and thus chose to change the political regime for the good of the city. Which proved to be just another pretentious way of sugarcoating the fact he wanted to give the mayor a sip of his own medicine since same had recently bragged about cleansing the streets from the filth that consumed them. Including – perfect example of being a dumbass – the worrisome presence of Jeremiah Valeska.

The major retired. He was a rotten egg to begin with and should have been voted out of office long ago, but Bruce can't help but think of the one-legged secretary. Marie Jules, 34, widow, three children barely out of preschool. Bruce has sent her and the other survivors a bouquet of flowers and a generous cheque in the name of Gotham, but nothing redeems them from the fear, loss and trauma they’ve been given just because they’d worked for the wrong man at the wrong time of day. It drives Bruce mad to say the least.

Every act of revenge and turmoil, however small, specific and subtle, leaves innocent victims in its wake. Jeremiah doesn't care, deems any occurence of death as justified or necessary because they’re all microbes in his mind **.** To Bruce, if anything, they are worthy of being saved – and he wants to avoid further fates like that of Marie Jules becoming the norm at all costs.

But none of Gotham's crooks he’s interrogated yet had the balls to spill Jeremiah's location on him, not even after a series of broken arms, smashed in noses and a faint collection of bruised and battered ribs. Time runs and with each hour that passes Bruce becomes more nervous for what is inevitably to come. If he can't stop him, who can? Every death that follows is on him.

He can't ask the GCPD for help since the detectives stumble just as much in the dark as he does, and unlike him they don't have night vision built in their mask. Not that they need to wear a mask either way; that's his personal shtick now.

But he might be too young to pull it off the way he should. He still needs training, experience, _time_ , but crime rarely stops in Gotham and so he doesn‘t either. He already can‘t remember the last time he allowed himself to drift into peaceful slumber without waking up with a batarang pressing welts into his palm.

The greatest wannabe detective, clueless and without any leads worth to be followed, camps a few nights later on the hump of a grim gargoyle at three o'clock in the morning, and feverishly considers the situation he’s stuck in.

It's been six months since Jeremiah declared Gotham _No Man's Land_. He hasn’t made any friends during this time, but no allies also mean no potential confidants. He wouldn't let anyone ordinary in on his plans, which rules out approximately 99 percent of the city. Ecco may know something, but she rarely leaves Jeremiah’s side and, of course, can’t be found nowhere. He doesn’t seem to be in the mood to play this time, otherwise he’d have left a hint to pick up weeks ago. Jeremiah is _big_ on sulking. It would have been almost endearing if he wouldn’t feel the urge to have others repay his mood swings with their screams, severed heads and quadrisected tongues.

Moonlight drips on Bruce's leather-bound hands. He flexes them and watches the shine eat into blackness and the copper-red smears of criminal blood beneath. He puts them to his nose and sniffs at them. Acrid as acid. It’s been a long night already. Familiar dread curls in his bones underneath the armor.

At the very beginning, he’s tried to negotiate. Racked himself to find reason in their violence, conditions he could fix or take away due to make them fear his very presence alone. 

He’s given it up, too quickly, some would say. Other’s would have merely asked him why he didn’t kick their skulls in soon he had the chance without ever bothering to get the steel caps of his boots dirty. Needless to say, Bruce doesn’t care for the condition of his attire. He never has, especially not when he returns to the manor, the armor covering his stomach meddled with bullet holes, trouble to keep himself upright, gnashing teeth. Alfred can’t seem to stop shaking his head since his hands are too occupied disinfecting and bandaging wounds to gesture his worry elsewise. It’s funny in a way. It’s sad in many others.

Bruce brings his hands together as if in prayer, lowering his chin onto the pinched phalanxes of his forefingers. He gazes into the abyss he calls his home, and breathes in deep.

He can’t fail this time. He needs someone who can completely put himself into the clown’s fancy yet outdated shoes. Someone whose gene code alone tells him of the next goal rising on his diabolical agenda. Someone who knows no fear, of nothing and no one, and especially not of Jeremiah Valeska.

His name burns on Bruce's tongue without having to say it, and he is rather disappointed than surprised he suppresses the possibility only to have it rebound on him soon he sees himself running out of options.

The day Captain Gordon literally pulled Jerome Valeska from the edge, was a memorable one. He’d grabbed the maniac by the wrist by the last second and hauled him up, difficult as it was. According to his report, the ginger put up a fight afterwards, punching and kicking despite the generous amount of wounds littering his body. Three men were needed to bring him down at last and carry him into a transporter off to Arkham. 

Jim earned a black eye, a split upper lip and a bad consciencefor saving Jerome. While Detective Bullock assured him he had done the right thing (although he himself would’ve asked the ginger to do a backflip rather than spare his ugly ass), Jim wasn’t sure if he had unleashed limbo upon Gotham or not. Bruce shared his concerns in that but wasn’t conflicted half as much with the fact of Jerome still breathing as long as they kept him _where he bloody belonged_ , as Alfred put it so eloquently.

This was back when they still thought Jerome would be the worst to ever happen to Gotham.

Good days these were. Foolish days, but good.

Bruce didn’t keep track of Jerome much afterwards. It wasn’t needed either; apparently with his brother on the loose, he didn’t see the need to leave the asylum anymore. Even newspapers grew tired of him quickly. 

 _He’s getting better_ , Bruce heard. Behaves almost exemplarily undisturbed in dealing with other inmates, takes part in the group therapy sessions and cheerfully pours out his black heart to Dr. Quinzel, his therapist, about everything she wants to hear. It doesn't seem to bother the young blonde that most words he spills are lies and distorted truths beyond recognition – either that or she really believes them which only makes the thing’s nature a whole lot sadder. She eagerly listens to his voice, laughs at his disastrous jokes and puts on a darker shade of lipstick each day, hoping he notices and compliments her on it. He never does. She doesn’t stop trying.

Bruce knows Jerome Valeska, probably much better than he would have liked to. He poses a beast lying in the trenches, patiently expecting his prey to walk through fog and mud, ready to be sweetly beckoned right between his watering teeth. But not yet. _Not yet_. Maybe the voices in his head discuss a time limit of their own. Bruce expects him to be back on the streets in less than a year. Contacting him would only speed the process and he isn’t keen on having to deal with two Valeskas and their antics at once. He sighs and puts the thought on ice for now. He’ll find another way. He has to.

Until he doesn’t.

Jeremiah doesn’t emerge from thin air, the atmosphere thickens with dreadful anticipation each day and the ice melts to a puddle that soaks through Bruce’s skin and ribcage to knock at his erratic heart.

And when a message is sent over the radio, carrying Jeremiah's cold and cruel voice for the first time in four months and three days announcing he’ll soon have cleansed the city of the pathetic filfth inhabiting it to finally create space for the advanced version he’s dreamed of for his Utopia, Bruce still has no idea about his whereabouts. All warning signs aside along with the bells ringing along his cerebrum, he bites the sour apple and reaches for the phone to schedule an appointment at Arkham. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

When Jerome dives into his field of vision, Bruce is taken abackby what he sees, though not for the reasons he expected.

Instead of the usual energetic appearance and the unwavering smile, two coarse-looking wardens drag in a reluctant figure wrapped in lop-sided bandages. An ungracious hand on one shoulder each, he is loaded onto the chair where he listlessly lingers with a curved back and hollow gaze.

Bruce looks him over more intently once the unfriendly ceiling light crowns his disarrayed mop of hair. 

He’s pale – paler than usual, and strangely sick even outside the cracked skin his scars frame. The deep valleys underneath his eyes remind of unmanned trenches, his mouth composed of two bloodless, grim lips sitting unwillingly on top of each other.  His view is dull as if he’d been underwater for too long, and only light up as he lifts his angular chin to catch Bruce's image in fern-green eyes. 

Bruce puts the cordless phone to his ear and urges him wordlessly to do the same. The visitor’s cabin is downright tiny, and he can hear his own breath echo around him.

Jerome doesn’t show the slightest inclination to do anything. He stares as if the boy in front of him is a forgotten Dalí and he actually knows how art is supposed to look like. It doesn’t take long before the smouldering eyes have Bruce squirm in his seat, familiar pressure welling up in his chest like a flood, but he remains adamant to show neither. Instead, he sighs, shrugs his shoulders and raises a hand in goodbye. He hurries himself to get up. 

His trousers have hardly come off the cheap plastic when Jerome's hand tears the receiver off the cradle with such force the cable trembles in its holder. Bruce hides his tired smirk underneath a snort and waits a minute before he sits back down. The game, as it’s always been between them, begins anew.

Jerome seems genuinely happy to see Bruce again which is crazy in itself. At least until the conversation turns on his brother and his face slumps down like a deflated water balloon.

“You want me to do _what_?“

„You‘re twins. You think alike“, Bruce says simply, checking his handcuffs. “If you were your brother, Jerome, where would you hide to regain your strength for an upcoming battle?“ Jerome leans back and folds his arms, the receiver jammed between his ear and shoulder.

“Listen, kid, I‘d really like to help you out here,“ he says, voice laced with sarcasm, “but I‘ve got no clue what you‘re babbling about. This ‘When someone kicks you down I’m the one tasting dirt’ telenovela crap was never a real thing between us.“

"Then how did you get through the labyrinth at his house without any problems? Even one of the experts he invited years ago took several days to figure it out,“ Bruce counters unblinking. He doesn't have time for this game of cat-and-mouse. Jerome frowns.

“You little snitch. How do you know that?“

“Captain Gordon told me.“ Jerome presses a fart sound through his puckered lips.

“Geez, didn‘t know Jim was such a tattletale.“

“This is of no importance now,“ Bruce says. He interlaces his fingers on the table. “I need to find Jeremiah before he sets his plan in motion. Otherwise, innocent people will die.“

“So what?“ Jerome bends an arm behind his head, the other lazily rolls the receiver’s cord around his ring finger. Bored, he stares at the ceiling. "Another couple of poor devils pushing up daisies. What do I care? Earth is overpopulated anyway.“ The tip of his tongue slips out, coating the cracks of his lips in a wet sheen. “’Miah might even do something good out there. I’m kinda proud.“

Bruce regrets to have chosen the visitor’s cabin as their meeting place. Without the thick glass wall constricting their movements, he’d have yanked Jerome through the opening and decked him hard enough to spit teeth. Jerome’s shit-eating grin tells him he’s too aware of that and it has Bruce’s hands clench further, short-cut nails rasping the small spaces between his fingers without piercing the skin there yet. Jerome being his nerve-racking self no matter his state was to be expected though. He needs to stay calm.

"Help me and there’ll be a reward for you. I'll make sure of that,“ he says firmly. Jerome hums. He tilts his head, a first shred of interest gleaming in his eyes.

“What kind of reward are we talkin’ about? Won’t get me outta here, will you?“

“I can arrange a bigger room for you. Better food, better medical care. If I bribe enough people, I can even –“

Jerome’s eyes roll back in his head till Bruce’s sees nothing but white to greet him.

“–I don’t give a flying fig about what all your bribing can do“, he says. A burst bloodvessel runs up his left eyeball. “Nah. I need something more _profound_ for ratting out my own flesh and blood.“ Bruce gives him a pointed look.

“Since when do you care for family?“ he asks the man who killed his mother with a hatchet soon he reached majority. Jerome actually reconsiders that. He decides to lift his shoulder in a half-shrug.

“It ain’t caring,“ he says simply. Bruce raises a brow.

“What is it then?“ Jerome blows out his cheeks. Bruce thinks he looks like a toad. An ugly toad with a golden orb in his mouth he’d rather swallow down than spit. The words that flow beneath are liquid pitch in Bruce’s ears. The trouble is that once they’re stuck, they’re hard to get out for a while.

“The old-fashioned thirst for vengeance, I suppose.“ Jerome puts his feet on the desk. The soles of the supposed-to-be-white shoes that belong to the asylum’s wardrobe are dirtied by blots of old red and other fluids Bruce doesn’t dare to name. “If you catch him, he’ll be thrown into a cell as far away from me as the staff can manage. They’ll set up different timetables for lunch, exercise and therapy only to have us never met each other face to face.“ His expression turns to a scowl, and he nudges deeper into his chair, crossing his legs. “Worse, they’ll stuff him with so many drugs he’ll remember to creep back into the shell of this nerdy bastard kid he portrayed. They’ll go easier on him then.“ His voice dips lower. His pupils are visible again, staring back to the ceiling, blinding himself with the brightness of cheap light bulbs. “They always do.“

Bruce ponders on this, an inscrutable expression on his face. He didn’t realize the sibling rivalry between Jerome and Jeremiah was still blooming. No, it never bloomed to begin with; it just aged like fine wine, a sharper stench to the bitter taste.

“What is this vengeance about?“ he asks at last though he can picture the answer himself well enough. Jerome throws his hands in the air. The chair creaks under his weight. Did he slim? Bruce remembers a sturdier version of him the last time they met.

“Stealing my act, of course! _Grudges like mine_ can only be quenched by direct action, – and an open field for a rocket launcher while we’re at it.“

“It was you who made him this way in the first place.“ Jerome snarls like a bitten animal.

"I didn’t make him do _anything_.“

“Funny,“ Bruce says drily, “He says the same, but I think you’re both in the wrong. Something about your story never quite matched for me.“ Jerome growls.

“Appearances are deceiving, Brucie. Mark my words.“ With a dart, Jerome brings both feet to the ground, then gropes between his legs. Snatching his seat he chutes closer to Wayne with an audible crack that lands punches to each ear drum in reach. As he bends over, only the glass stops their faces from colliding nose to nose. “Okay, I got my price – I want **_one_**  hour with you in my cell. Alone. Unguarded. And unarmed."

His breath fogs the glass. Bruce wouldn't have been surprised if he'd licked up the vapor and presented his damp tonguejust to jar him. He sighs in exasperation.

“Do you plan on mutilating me?“ Jerome snorts.

“Always knew you had a dirty mind, but I ain’t in the mood. You‘ll still be in one piece when I‘m done with you – scout’s honor.“ He averts his gaze saying that, so there’s more to it than he gives away. Bruce’s eyes narrow.

“And what exactly _are_ you going to do to me? I assume, unlike Jervis, you’re not one for tea parties.“ Jerome folds his arms on the table and puts on the face he deems innocent most. Maybe it’s the one he presented back when Jim interrogated him about Lila. Whatever magic it captured earlier, it doesn’t work on Bruce now.

“Nothing inhumane.“

“Jerome.“ Jerome draws himself up to his full height and lifts a hand in defense, the other pressing the receiver so close to his lips his voice cracks through the cord like tinder in a bonfire.

“Ain’t wanna spoil the surprise,“ he says cheerily, and oh dear, there’s no doubt he means it. Bruce rubs his temple, forcing the headache climbing under his skin back into its cave. It’s a dubious deal. Putting himself in Jerome’s hands for two hours is more dangerous than wading nude through a crocodile-infested stretch of water. But if he truly has useful information about Jeremiah… he’d save him more than just a lot of time.

“And then you‘ll tell me of Jeremiah‘s location?“ he presses slowly. Jerome winks.

“I’ll even tell you of the gas,“ he says. Bruce stills.

“What gas?“

“One step at a time, Brucie.“ The clown wags a finger with a chipped nail. His damn smile resurfaces, a vermilion curve underneath the ceiling light. “First my reward. Then we’ll see what lil ol’ me can do _for you_.“


	2. Scar Dance

Bruce isn‘t naive enough to think Jerome would choose him to do something normal before he spills the beans, so he mentally prepares for a variety of disgusting or shameful tasks. Personally, he counts on something entirely ridiculous — a dance, a serenade, a monologue about how and why Jerome is highly superior to his little brother in any way imagineable. Even the request to get on his knees and perform tricks like a dog or lick his shoes comes to mind when he enters the ward. 

Jerome's cell is, as to be expected, ofSpartan fashion. A toilet without a lid, the lame excuse of a bed, a desk and a lamp that have seen better days yet. The only window lodges as a small and dust-stained square in the upper left corner of the room. Frail moonlight shines through its lattice and assures that Bruce notes the miserable condition of the stained mattress underneath it. 

He quickly scans the room and is stumped not to find Jerome anywhere. At least, as far as he can see, there are no surgeon tools or other weapons to worry about nor embarrassing costumes he could have forced him into. That would have been his next concern. He‘s picked up some rumors on the corridors when he left Arkham earlier today. Oswald wouldn’t be pleased had he known his unfortunate _show_ from that time of his referral already poses as one of the chestnuts spread in canteen gossip among inmates old and new.

They need something to laugh though. Arkham is an unusually dreary place. Bruce begins to understand why Jerome kept breaking out of here before. Nothing is funny inside these walls. And jokes are less easy to make with stone and concrete enclosing your mind.

"Pretty dark in here," are the first words he plants in the silence after pressing the heavy door shut behind him. He knocks twice and the guard outside resumes his walk. Bruce has offered him enough cash to let him stay in the cell for 70 minutes in total. His name is Shepard – a truly iconic name given the situation Bruce has flung himself into – and he‘s been more reluctant than most to leave him alone with the fire-haired circus devil. If it hadn’t been for the hospital bills for his wife battling with abdominal cancer, he’d have dropped the matter soon as Bruce mentioned the inmate’s well-known identity. Valeska is fairly notorious in the institution, not only because he‘s a one of a kind deranged individual juggling violence with jests, but also because he’s already driven two therapists to quit their job. Shepherd isn‘t keen on having to drag a multilated billionaire kid out of Jerome’s hands, and Bruce understands that. He’s still surprised but not averse to the pager the guard shoved in his hands, ordering him to keep it and contact him if complications arose and he’d come and open the cell as quickly as possible. Bruce is thankful for the gesture, wishes him and his wife the best, but ardently hopes he won‘t need to depend on backup here.

"Yep. Arkham saves where it can." The table lamp lights up and Jerome’s broad-shouldered shape cuts itself out of the corner’s shadow behind the desk. Bruce's mouth twitches. For the fact that Jerome usually likes to draw attention to himself, he hasn‘t spotted him in the dark before he was allowed to. Shoving his hands in the pockets of the faded Arkham trousers he wears, the redhead stops in the middle of the room and leans against the light so that the moon frames his outline with an otherwordly glow. Silver spots dance along his naked collarbone and the harsh shape of his jaw. His hair, an eternal mess without any product slicking it back, turns to fuzzy rust in the half-lit blackness. No light reflects in the soulless morass of his pupils.

"Well, here we are. How's Jeeves?" Bruce rests his hands on his hips.

"We don't have time for small talk. You promised me –‚“ Jerome raises his hand. He put on gloves this time. A patch of dried blood clings to the white leather like an acryl painting barely begun.

“Hold on, kid. You already got the wrong picture here.“ His relaxed expression shifts to a diabolical one. It is both frightening and fascinating how fluently he manages to do this. _Just how many masks does he put on each day to accomplish that_ , Bruce wonders. “I didn't promise you anythin’. What I tell and what I don't is entirely up to you." Bruce knits his brows. 

“And how do I accomplish your cooperation?“

Jerome snaps his fingers and points underneath the bed. “No worries, Brucie. I‘ve got everything covered for our little rendezvous.“

Of course Jerome telling him this only makes Bruce worry further. With his mouth pinched, he observes him hop off the mattress, and kneel down to retrieve something crammed underneath the bed. He gets a good look on Jerome‘s behind – the obnoxious wiggles are simply unnecessary – during the action. Bruce stares for a minute till he remembers where is and drops his gaze.

He lifts it again when Jerome carries an elongated object in his hands and examines it from all sides. The stripes of moonlight trickling in help Bruce recognize the shape. A first echo of unease makes itself known in the stutter of his heart.

“What‘s the tripod for?“

“Patience’s a virtue, Bruce. Gimme a sec.“ Jerome sets the thing up inches from the upper end of the bed, the aluminum alloy clicking as he rams it into the ground. He strolls to the other side of the room and stops before the desk. Tongue jammed in the corner of his mouth, he leans forward and scans the wall area above the table top. Bruce feels like he’s on the set of a second-rate Crime Noir film when he takes one of the stones out the wall with ease and pulls a velvet bag out of the hollow space behind it. _A gun_ is Bruce‘s first thought and he becomes painfully aware of the armor he lacks.

"If you don‘t tell me what‘s going on, I‘ll leave this cell and won‘t come back," he states sharply. Jerome sighs. He turns to him, his loot dangling from his hand.

"'Miah is a mole. If he doesn't want to be found, he hides in a hole until something drags him back to the surface. And that something is you." Bruce‘s eyes flare up in anger.

"I don't understand. I thought you _knew_ how to find him?“ Jerome upends the bag. Something black and square falls onto his open palm.

"Finding him is impossible – unless you make him leave his cover himself. The easiest way to do that is to make him angry." He shakes his hand in Bruce’s direction and grins. " _Really_ angry."

Bruce’s lips grow colorless. A camcorder. Small and clunky, but probably functioning.

“Do you want to torture me to get his attention? That would make you Jeremiah's target, too."

"I still have a score to settle with that bum anyway so that suits me just fine. Arkham's dull as dishwater – it's about time something happens again." Jerome checks the camera lens and is pleased to find no scratches on it. Kudos to the delivery man. **"** Besides, it's not torture I have in mind for you. ...Well, not how I’d define it anyway.“ Walking back to the bed, he attaches the camcorder to the tripod, fiddles with the opened lid. "My baby brother isn’t stupid – your whining and two toenails less would certainly put him in a rage, sure, but to lead him right to me and kick my ass, we need to create a huge bummer on his ego too.“

Bruce swallows. He doesn't like where this is going. If the camcorder isn’t meant to record a torture session, why did Jerome get it in the first place?

"What would affect him more than you causing me pain?" he asks reluctantly, arms stiff to his sides. Jerome stills for a moment. He let’s go of the equipment and shoves his hands into his pant pockets, eyes dark as a swamp.

“Well, a vid of me sucking you off would be a great start.“

Bruce blinks. Then, he blinks again. Then, again.

Oh.

 _Oh_.

“Absolutely not.“ Jerome grins wider. For the first time, it reminds Bruce more of a shark than a toad.

“Knew you’d say that! But think about it, Brucie. He _really_ likes you. You’re his Dark Prince Charming, his counterpart of doom. And there‘s no one he thinks more abhorrent than me.“ He snickers proudly at that. Sitting back on the mattress, he slaps his thighs. “Imagine how it‘ll rile him up, you, his precious boy, writhing underneath me as you try to hold in your screams so you don‘t wake the other inmates up.“ Enthusiasm oozes in his voice. “The audacity! He won‘t be able to think of anything else for the next few days, I assure you that.“

Jerome ogles him with such fervent joy in his eyes it has panic sizzle into Bruce‘s bones.He feels the familiar hunch of fear rise in unison with the shallow hint of panic garnering around his throat. He wets his dry lips and moves as far away from Jerome as possible. Few steps later and he hits the wall in his back, a curse ringing in his ears. The cell is small, too small for a claustrophobic resident, let alone two inmates who don't like each other.

“Jerome, I –“

“– Getting down on you doesn’t count as torture from what I know. If I don‘t bite, that is.“ Jerome exposes two rows of unnaturally white teeth. “What do you say, Bruce? Wanna have some fun _before the main event_?“

A whiff of frost touches Bruce’s forehead though there’s no wind outside. Jerome's eyes are stuck on him, cradle him like snakes. The twilight has them glow like green coals in a liveless mine. Bruce hugs himself, tries to sort his thoughts running amok.

"Why would you want to do... _this_... with me? Do you want to humiliate me? Sell the damn tape to CNN to afford a lawyer able to bust you out of here?" His gaze flickers to the door. The pager rests on his belt, reliable and solid. Wherever Shepard is, he needs seven minutes at a max to get to this cell. Bruce is trained in hand-in-hand combat, but a lot can happen in seven minutes. If Jerome smuggled in a camcorder and a tripod, he might very well hide a knife or two under his pillow too. Jerome places a hand on his chest, his fingers spread out in fake shock. He looks downright offended and the sight’s so much of a paradox Bruce almost laughs.

"This is a matter between us three. I'm trying to _help you_ , Brucie. And, of course, I want to piss my brother off."

"You don't want to help me, you want to fuck me!"

"Yeah. That's a neat bonus."

Bruce exhales sharply. Jerome doesn’t see the problem. Naturally he doesn’t – he doesn’t see a problem in anything he does, or rather chooses to ignore it since to acknowledge any difficulties would diminish his fun. He’s so damn selfish in this regard. But, at least, he doesn’t shy away from saying what he wants. Bruce grinds his teeth so hard the sting bites into his gums and beyond.

“I can’t do this.“

“Of course you can! Look, if you'd rather have it on the wall, that's fine by me. I'm not good at kneeling, but I'd be happy to make an exception for you. All I have to do is move the camera –“

"I'm not a whore!“

Immediate silence cloaks the room, thick as syrup. A mixture of astonishment and amusement sparkles in Jerome's view. He doesn't seem angry, and that confuses Bruce the most. He could have handled anger. Moreover, he could have used it as an excuse.

"I never said you were." He nearly sounds placative. It annoys Bruce to no end. “If anything, I’m the whore here. Like mother, like wayward son et cetera. I want to blow you, not the other way round – a little experiment of my own, if you will. Does this sound better to you now?“

“I…“ Bruce finds himself at a loss for words. His cheeks burn with the mere thought of defering to the offer. Abashed, he goggles at his shoes. He feels very young, younger than he‘s ever been in his life, and he utterly loathes the whole experience.

Sexual activity hasn‘t been much on his mind these days, nor has it ever truly. The last time he invited the possibility into his life he was at his breaking point; a prolonged repercussionof the abyss eating into him with no Alfred, no limits, but a lot of booze and company whose names he didn’t manage to remember. The girls were pretty, sure, and so were the boys; but it never meant anything. A grabbing hand here, kisses and tongues drenched in champagne there; he didn‘t go as far as sleeping with them in earnest though. At least not with the boys.

Jerome tilts his head. Somehow, he seems to guess exactly what Bruce’s thinking about which only unsettles him further.

"A little crow told me my brother came to see him the other day and asked him to recreate my laughing gas," he says, which has Bruce look up. "I don't think I ever gave you a good preview on it, but... it's really bad. Well, bad in the best sense." He rests his chin on a fist, watching the boy with an almost tame expression. For the first time, Bruce realizes Jerome knows he’s pulling the strings here; and Bruce is the puppet that refuses to dance its part. “You should realize I can't blab about Johnny-boy's safe house like that. But if you're good enough, I'll make sure to pass the tape to him so that he slips it into Jeremiah's possession the next time he visits. As far as I know him, he‘ll destroy it after jerking off to it. He’s always been a bit uptight about erotica.“ Jerome snorts a short laugh, then his eyes grow oddly serious again. “You don't want him to fill the gas into tanks and blast it in the midst of some huge crowd, do you?"

No. No, Bruce really doesn't want that. But he doesn't want _this_ either. He remains silent, pondering. Jerome wrinkles his nose in reply.

“Let’s start with something light to get in the mood,“ he proposes. “Take off that awful sweater and come to me.“ He curls a finger towards Bruce. "I want to see them first.“ Bruce grits his teeth. 

"See what?" He can barely choke out the words. Jerome makes an impatient gesture.

"The scars from the carnival. Give me your arm." Reluctance builts in the pit of Bruce's stomach like millstones. He stays put, the mistrust in him growing a second set of teeth. Is this another bait to swallow? He feels sharp edges drool along his neck.

"What if I don't show them to you?" he asks. “What if I keep my turtleneck on while we do... this.“ Jerome laughs. It’s not scornful. On the contrary, he seems pretty much amused by all of this. _He probably wouldn’t do it otherwise_ , Bruce thinks.

"Oh honey, it‘s just the foreplay of the foreplay. Courtesy of mine, mind you. If you can‘t handle even this, you should turn your back on me and leave." He folds his arms in front of his chest and measures Bruce with a challenging look in his eyes. “What you’re waiting for? Fuck off and let those poor bastards die! I ain’t putting out if you don’t.“ 

 _Now that’s just rude,_ Bruce thinks, but alas, Jerome has never been known to have manners in the first place. He presses his jaw together, a thin sheen of nervous sweat gathering under his armpits as he conducts the possible outcomes for his next action. He‘s at the disadvantage of the whole ordeal, and they’re both aware of it.

Nevertheless, the prospect of coming so close to Jerome he can spot lines on his skin evokes nausea in the back of his throat mixed with another impulse Bruce isn‘t able to classify yet, but makes him feel restless and somewhat inadequate with himself.

Jerome is right. Bruce hates this fact but this doesn‘t change it being a fact. He can either go and risk more nights of aimless search until it‘s too late and Gotham is no more than a laughing stock of murderous lunatics, or he spreads his legs to save the city once more. He doesn‘t even know if Jerome‘s bluffing or not, if the whole thing works out in the end or if it‘s just a self-indulgent waste of time. But all things aside, Cleopatra didn‘t have a much more complicated plan either when she rolled out of the carpet, dark-eyed beauty at Caesar‘s feet, offering her everything to him in his satin-laced bed chamber to regain her kingdom.

Jerome is no Caesar, but he‘s died like one already. Bruce could have bestowed more than 23 dagger stabs on him and he’d still be laughing, unused to plead for the mercy he never got.

Stills of the diner flash before his inner eye, gruesome and promising pain. Zachary Trumble tipping the bowl on Jerome’s horrified face, its steaming contents pouring over his chin and collarbone like liquid fire, how they form blisters on scarlet flesh in their wake.

Hadn’t Bruce stormed in back then, who knows how long they’d have played their cruel games with him. But if he _hadn't_ stopped them, there might be no Jeremiah Valeska and his macabre urges to worry about. In the end, all the chaos to come emerged from one decision; to save Jerome when everyone else would have turned on their heel and left him to his sad fate for it had always been sad and couldn‘t be helped but to suffer a sad end as well. To say he didn’t deserve this treatment when he‘d already endowed even worse torments to other people would have been blasphemous and a slander towards his every victim including Bruce himself. 

He looks at Jerome while he tries to melt holes into the wall next to him with the intensity of his hollow stare. He holds his hands wedged together, tapping the tip of his shoe impatiently onto the floor as he waits for Wayne to leave. A nervous tick, no doubt, but Jerome and nervous? Two terms that doesn‘t want to fit together, not like this. In his mind, Bruce spits a curse he is certain to have stolen from his butler's British vocabulary during the years. 

He'd look so young, it occurs to him, – without the scars, the striped clothes and the grief kneaded into his features. He's actually one of the youngest patients in this block, although this doesn't have to mean anything. Many who were forced to make themselves a home inside this building came through the gates as half-children, and never went out again without a supervisor looking over their pointed shoulders hunched against the cold.

The proper thing to do would be to feel at least guilty about sparing him. About letting him wreak more havoc in his path, about giving him the chance to shoot chests and explode heads. But when was the last time in Bruce Wayne‘s life he hasn’t felt guilty about every small, unnerving, disastrous thing he did?

Neither failing to kill nor preventing Jerome Valeska from being killed, is one of them.

"Hold on," he instructs Jerome, having him gaze up in surprise. He swallows, saliva like glue in his mouth. “I’ll... I‘ll come to you. Don’t move.“ 

An instant grin plasters across Jerome‘s face, the scars that stretch the corners of his mouth almost splitting it into vertical halves. Like a child meeting Santa, he bounces further back on the mattress. It creaks in protest under the added weight as he leans back, legs bent, using both arms to support his upper body. For a change, he‘s awfully quiet; as if he fears one sound from him and Bruce leaps out the door anyway.

Bruce doesn’t. He peels himself off the wall and walks towards him, every movement of accentuated indifference until he stops before the bed, both feet planted firmly on the ground. He rolls his sleeve up to his elbow and holds out his forearm.

He suspects it yet flinches when Jerome's hands snatch his wrist immediately, and bring it to his eyes for closer inspection. Bruce feels his warm breath crawl over his palm. Admittedly, the grip is of less force than he has anticipated, but he'd still have preferred no direct contact at all.

Jerome turns his arm so the area of skin he remembers best correlates with the mixed light of both moon and lamp. His gloved fingertips trace the intricate network of blue veins that flow to the crook and beyond. The longer he does, the more the corners of his mouth sink south. His movements become hastier, his fingers press and prick as if there‘s a button to be found. Bruce endures it without moving an inch. Strange as it is, he trusts Jerome he won‘t break his arm or twist otherwise though he has the chance. Not today, at least.

Quite soon a lost expression forms on Jerome’s distorted features. It reminds Bruce of a child whose most beloved toy has been snatched from his reach and locked away in a glass cabinet, visible yet gone. He frowns until the puzzle pieces in his mind align with a click, and reveal a devastating scene. To his own shock, he‘s overcome with the slightest hint of pity.

"They healed quickly,“ he says. “They didn't last as long as the marks on my palms or the incision on my throat. I'm sorry to disappoint you, but there’s nothing left.“ Jerome looks up to him, his nose scrunched up, his mouth a harsh curve. It actually seems to be bothering him though Bruce remains to some extent clueless why. It‘s so human in its own way he involuntarily asks himself what went so wrong it had to end here; caged, abandoned and hated by the world, left with little to no room to breathe or jest.

Would he have ended up here too without Alfred keeping him sane? Swallowed down by grief, crazed by the nightmares that kept him awake for the first few months after the funeral? 

Once, years ago, maybe Jerome could have been saved from this fate, and his crimson tendencies nothing more but a poor bedside manner to gag about. Everything that ever separated them was a helping hand in times of utter fragility and wrath.

Bruce’s mouth withers to a line. He doesn‘t want to think about this, can’t. He isn‘t like Jerome. He isn’t here to care. He’d never have turned out like him, no matter the circumstances. Or so he tells himself.

"Are you sure? Not even a shadow?" Jerome asks, his voice a clean slicer through Bruce’s turmoil. Bruce shakes his head. Jerome pushes out his lower lip.

"Too bad." One of his thumbs comes to a halt over Bruce's pulse point in the crook’s center where the skin is thinnest. His forehead wrinkles as he tries to feel the rhythm of his heart pumping blood. Bruce vividly remembers the clamps he once used to hold up his own skin there, metallic teeth biting into abused flesh. It all seems like a fever dream now, but scars can’t lie. “I was hoping for a mark... something that's gonna last." 

Bruce nearly chokes on his own spit as the blunt edge of a nail traces the contour of a more prominent vein, digging for the spill. Jerome's touches are warm and unyielding, but not as unpleasant as he feared which makes their situation all the more awkward, not to mention for how he should feel forwhat‘s to come. Above all, they don‘t compulsively send pain through his synapses nor seek to break the skin on purpose. He didn't know the ginger was even capable of a not bruising touch. 

Led by an impulse, illogical and pure, Bruce decides to reward him for it. Maybe he‘ll keep it up once they‘re about to get serious. Maybe… he just wants to be nice for once.

He raises his free hand and lays it over Jerome’s, slowly. The leather of his glove feels artificial and smooth like latex, charged with Jerome's body heat. He gently removes it from the crook and guides it deeper down to his wrist, placing it right above the place where the clip gun hit the first clamp into him three years ago. Jerome's eyes flicker to him like arrows, but Bruce has his own gaze set firmly on both their hands. He allows Jerome to graze his thumb across the recovered skin.

"What are scars to you? A proof you've made an impression on me? A memory?" Jerome shrugs a shoulder but isn‘t quite honest about it, Bruce can tell. Both his hands wrap around the boy’s wrist now, overlapping each other. His thumb starts to rub lazy circles close above the artery. It’s almost... teasing. Timid. Cautious. Bruce sucks in a sharp breath but keeps himself from making sounds otherwise. He didn't calculate Jerome to be cautious either. Jerome Valeska has killed with these hands, activated bombs with these hands. He punched and tortured and cut through flesh and cackled about each. 

A lump builds in Bruce’s throat as the spot being tended to grows tender and bristling under the other's touch. This, among other things, strays far from what he‘s planned to do tonight. He should be swinging over the rooves of Gotham by now, stop bulgaries and dislocate limbs of subprime crooks.

Instead, he finds himself in a cell of Arkham allowing one of the Valeskas to touch him like no one’s ever touched him before. Maybe that‘s a joke he can get behind somewhen. Now, however, he has a hard time telling the punchline.

"Dunno. A sign?" Jerome sounds so casual.

"A sign," Bruce repeats, voice a caricature of itself. The answer evokes a distinct pang in his chest he can’t place. "You want to imprint me like cattle, is that it? Mark me as your property to do and kill as you please. It’s all about signalizing the others you do not share.“

He attempts to come loose, but Jerome, alarmed, hardens his grip. The pressure of his thumbs increases and Bruce has to keep himself in check not to break his nose for it. He’s right-handed – his last shred of luck, probably.

"No – Yes! I mean – you'd look dashing with my initials around your neck.“ His words tumble over themselves in his haste to get them out. When Bruce makes no effort to respond, a shadow casts over his face which could have almost been confused with chagrin. He turns Bruce's arm to pat the back of his hand. “Hey, I was kidding, Brucie. Laugh a minute. You could use one." All it does is add a throb to the pang in Bruce’s chest and have it beat near his sternum like a doubled heart. He turns away.

"Your jokes don't calm me."

"God forbid I ever calm you."

"You know no god."

Jerome pulls him onto his lap and Bruce forgets how to breathe.

Where Jerome‘s hands emit a rather pleasant degree of warmth, the rest of him is scourging hot. At first, Bruce thinks he's sitting on a stove plate, wondering if this is the way Jerome's body takes revengeon him for being dead for a year. He shifts a bit, the feeling simultaneously new and oddly familiar (the last time he sat on someone’s lap was on his father’s at the age of eight) but gradually, he sinks into it. Jerome’s thighs are firm but comfortable, his stature lean, but once Bruce places his hands on his shoulders to balance himself, he can feel the muscle cords pulled taunt underneath. Due to his recent nocturnal activities, Bruce also started to build up his muscles, but he’s still far from the shape he’d like to be in.Damned to remain a human toothpick for now, however, Jerome would have some advantage of tackling him in a fight.

He doesn’t try to leave. Jerome’s grip on him is like a vice. Astonishing enough, Bruce guesses it’s more for the matter of securing his position than meant as an actual threat. 

“Depends on what you call your god. The one those bootlickers idolize in their churches? The one who couldn’t be bothered to bust his holy ass and save your parents _or_ me? No, that doesn’t do it for me.“Jerome lays a hand on Bruce’s cheek. Bruce recoils, the proximity making him more aware of the sleekness and artificiality of pleather on his skin than before. Jerome takes the hint, brings the glove between his teeth and pulls it off with a slap. Slim, nimble fingers appear. Bruce spots burst knuckles that have barely started to scab. They weren’t burst yesterday. He wonders what caused Jerome to lash out since then. Or who. “Guess my religion uses a more particular kind of worship."

“No house of any deity whatsoever would welcome you,“ Bruce says. But this time Jerome reaches out to twirl a dark brown curl between his fingers, he doesn‘t flee from his touch. He doesn’t lean in either. Jerome chuckles.

“True. But I‘d never said I‘d worship before an altar either.“

“Where do you worship then?“ 

A grin splays on his face, and so does the still gloved hand on Bruce’s waistline that picks at the hem of his turtleneck before it travels underneath. Bruce tenses but urges himself to breathe while the pads of Jerome’s fingers knock along the smooth flesh of his lower back. It doesn’t feel bad. For a moment, he wishes it would.

Jerome’s voice is an anchor in the barely lit dark of the room, barbed wire to his ear and rasp upon his spine as he speaks.

“If you really want to know, I’ll show you.“

With the blood pounding in his head like ocean waves, Bruce nods.

A silent sound framing his parted lips, he allows his belt to be opened, pulled and thrown on the ground with a rich clank, the pager clattering with it. The turtleneck’s hauled over his head and tossed aside, exposing him to the mild temperatures of the night and a scalding body to cling to. Swift fingers unzip his pants and urge his hips to rise so that the fabric tears from his legs like plastic wrap. How he should explain this to the guard, he doesn’t know, but his concerns are elsewhere now. Jerome's gaze burns like wrought iron on every inch of his exposed flesh, and Bruce recognizes with shame how the notion of it accelerates his pulse. Trembling from head to toe, he finally senses a pull at the hem of his underwear when the elder stops with a click of his tongue.

“Stay“, he says and taps the bed’s bottom end to emphasize his command. “I’ll put the camera in position – I want him to get a real eyeful of you like this.“

Bruce has already fallen a long way, but has yet to overcome the awkwardness of obeying the maniac and lie down on the mattress while he stands up and shifts the tripod.

His eyes wander, the presence of the pager near and far in his mind, as well as the knowledge it only takes pushing a button to escape this act. Both weigh heavy as marble on his chest. He has free choice, and the perfectly-timed fracture in all Jerome does and says tells him he knows it, and it amuses him terribly. It turns him on too, considering the prominent bulge distending the tent of his pants.

But if Bruce presses the button, and this is as safe as the Bank of England, Jerome will never again agree to reveal someone’s location, let alone offer sensitive information about his brother. His mind is as organized as a can of worms on his best days, yet all he portrays deeply interconnects with the seedy underbelly of Gotham. Jeremiah would remain undetected and pursue what he intends to do with the gas mentioned by Jerome earlier. If the gas is released, people will literally laugh themselves to death. Women, children, men, elders. Innocent, unsuspecting citizens who won‘t know what happens to them until it ruptures their jaw. If he demurs at doing this only because he puts his own well-being above that of other people, any life wiped out will be on his head. Not something a true hero would accept, no matter the circumstances.

Bruce closes his eyes, steers them away from the pager, and breathes. Whatever he chooses to do, he is fucked in both ways. One proves just more literal than the other, so why bother? He can’t win.

The old springs of the mattress squeak in malice as Jerome turns and scrambles back on the bed. Bruce should be glad he doesn’t outright jump on it – the bedstead isn‘t the most robust anymore, and the last thing Bruce needs now is a guard barging into them _like this_ because he’s heard it collapse. Of course, Jerome would never worry about such trivial matters. That‘s Bruce‘s job.

“Now where were we…ah!“ He catches Bruce’s naked ankles and yanks him closer, coaxing out a yelp for his trouble. In the span of a heartbeat, Bruce finds himself on his back, legs spread, with Jerome kneeling in between them as if he was born for it.

He rids himself of his Arkham shirt and throws it towards the desk where it slips over the table lamp, dimming its shine. Bruce catches sight of a toned stomach and sprouts of autumn-red curls growing on his chest, girding the dark nubs of his nipples and arching south in a delicate line of copper. Despite the supposedly slim waist sturdy flesh sticks to his ribs, well-defined pecs above, a thick neck and broad shoulders to complete the V-shaped picture with a hint of warning.

 _Maybe_ , Bruce thinks then with heat creeping up his neck though he’ll refute it to Alfred and God himself if he has to (which are basically the same person in his book). _Just maybe_ , _I’ll get at least_ ** _something_** _out of this._

Muscle cords flex in tune as Jerome stretches himself luxuriously, basking in the cerulean spotlight of Bruce‘s attentive gaze. Judging by the cracks, he gives his bones a new alignment while he does.

“Like what you see?“ His whole demeanor is a tease. Bruce stays quiet, his mind too busy to contradict itself that he does.

The moon dimly pours over Jerome's shoulders and paints grey streaks on the protruding muscles of his upper arms as he bows down. Bruce carves his scars out of the shadow. Teeth gleam like pearls in the dark, but there’s no light refracting in his pupils; all they frame is the boy among them. He reminds Bruce of an artwork by Füssli he once saw as a child when his parents visited old friends in Detroit. _Der Nachtmahr_ it was called. A demon that feeds on nightmares and the like.

Jerome prefers a firmer diet than what the recurring shreds of Bruce’s trauma offer, but he too seems precariously hungry, as if he‘d been starved all his life. Bruce swallows. His throat is dust-dry and itches. He feels like an offering; he probably is. And this gives him an idea.

"How long did you really plan this?" he asks, voice unusually feeble in the confined space of Jerome‘s embrace. The camcorder runs in the background, records every movement and sound. He might as well make conversation that matters. They‘re way beyond the idea of pretending by now.

Jerome cocks his head as if to contemplate whether he should tell the truth or not. He glances at Bruce's nervous yet defiant face, his thin-pressed lips and big, grave eyes dimly circling him in their center. His features soften, if only for a blink.

“I wanted to do this since the diner,“ he murmurs. It sounds genuine, so Bruce takes it as that. What convinces him further is Jerome‘s touch that sears along his inner thighs like bee stings, his nails scratching and inching deliberately higher. Bruce shivers, then feels a sharp tug and the last barrier of fabric’s ripped down to his ankles and off his feet, discarded somewhere on the floor. He tries to draw his knees in when the air makes contact with his sensitive skin. Jerome scoffs and effortlessly pulls them back apart.“Look what we have here,“ he purrs, looking him up and down with approval. “Circumcised, eh? How cute.“

Bruce opens his mouth to protest, but is interrupted by Jerome lunging forward and crashing their mouths together in a bruising kiss. 

Kissing Jerome Valeska is surreal, unnerving and addicting at the same time, Bruce finds out. Like grasping a piece of ruby in the dirt after digging so long that blood runs down your fingers, a proof it’s all worth the hardship put forth. Jerome‘s lips are chapped and rough and scrape against Bruce‘s soft ones in a way that has sirens go off in his brain while he quivers from head to toe by the sheer force he’s met with. 

The click of teeth shakes his system as much as the ruthless fingers twisting in his curls in a manner as wanton as desperate to keep him close. It’s pure electricity running between them; interchanging and recharging, it mingles with the exuberant heat on top of him that knocks the breath out of his lungs and has his heart blaring in his chest. Jerome tastes of petrol and cinder, of stale apple juice from dinner earlier and the faintest hint of sweet-sickened blood clogged under his gums. It isn‘t tender — Bruce didn‘t expect it to be — but the amalgam proves addictive enough to eventually invite Jerome’s prodding tongue in, and let it run over the rim of his teeth before it tangles with his own and Bruce’s mouth is being plundered in earnest. The mess that ensues is wet, obnoxiously loud and perfect to the point that Bruce has to fight for oxygen. He claws onto Jerome’s hair and pulls, merely eliciting a feral growl to stroke his taut nerves and have him shudder all over again. The minute he scratches his nails over Jerome’s scalp and mewls into the kiss, Jerome wraps a hand around his throat and squeezes while the lifts him up on his pelvis with ease and his bulge grinds against Bruce’s bared shaft till he sees stars.

Dazed by the carousel of sensations he’s never felt before, Bruce doesn’t fully acknowledge at first how the pressure around his windpipe tightens the more erratic Jerome’s movements become. How his thumb caresses the spot he’d put the knife on back when they’ve barely been introduced to each other under false pretenses.

When he does, it’s already too late.

The pressure builds. His grip seizes, eyelids fluttering. Trapped beneath Jerome, the bed and the black creeping at the edges of his vision, it feels like he’s floating, the deprivation of air growing more prominent in his failing system while the pleasure’s so, so _intense_. It’s as glorious as it’s deadly. Seeking help he can’t verbalize, he opens his clouded eyes and finds their green counterpart trained on him to filter his reactions, enarmored, drowned in this rapt joy of a predator who’s eternally torn between wanting to either kill or fuck him or both.

One hand on his throat.

Bruce blinks.

No, _two_ hands on his throat. Clutching, pressing, holding him in place. The first terror kicks in. Bruce’s lids prick with tears he didn’t know he held, tongue still lapping tongue, the taste so sweet now it has him retch. He starts to trash and scratch down Jerome’s back to get him off, mumbling warnings, but Jerome doesn’t see the problem. He never does. And his hands, awfully fond in their destruction, stay chained around his neck like a chaplet.

It takes seconds, a minute maybe till Bruce gives up his fidgeting, his twitch, and stirs. His body goes slack beneath Jerome’s grip, a crippled calm seeping into his core. His arms drop off Jerome’s shoulders and down his sides like tattered fabric. And his eyes, at last, close on their own.

Immediately, pressure and heat are gone, and he falls with no strings attached, the air cemented in his paralyzed lungs.

The soft landing on the matress never comes, though.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Inspiration Songs:

 

Jolt – Unlike Pluto (Nightcore Version) : <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r6954fz6OcQ>

AViVA - HUSHH : <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=joOc4KfmcXE>

Little Poor Me - Layto (Nightcore Version) : <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wQysqHCAEi4>

 


	3. True Lies

It seems ages till Bruce groans, wriggles, and looks up with nothing but delicious emptiness occupying his mind. 

The world spins and sways above his head, flickers of the moon leaking into the blue-belted gloom the cell thrives in. Once the blur wears off, he finds himself seated back on Jerome’s lap, one arm wrapped around his waist to balance his upper body, the other‘s hand pressed flat to his forehead as though he takes his temperature. The first image that reaches him clear as day is Jerome’s face so close in front of his own their noses almost brush. He studies him, a **labile** train pulling at his mouth. And troublesome as that is, Bruce is too confused by the gesture as a whole to be appalled by any of it.

“Breathe,“ Jerome says, an authority in his tone Bruce’s never heard before. “I’ll count to 20. Every time I say an even number, you’ll breath in, capiché?“ Bruce gawks at him as if he’d have recited the first ten decimal places of Pi. Jerome grunts, and pats his cheek roughly. “Hey, stop playing dumb. I know you can hear me just fine. Listen to my voice.“ 

Bruce does. His swollen lips part on Jerome’s command, and he more or less steadily gulps in the air he’s been denied in their rush. Only after his vision has turned normal again, and he attempts to look around the room to reorganize himself, Jerome’s grip on him softens, and he releases a breath of his own he seems to have held for a long time. The hand on Bruce‘s forehead wanders to cup the side of his face, thumb grazing his cheekbone. Bruce feels himself waver immediately, either from the shock of being tended to, disgust or his lingering daze he doesn‘t know. Maybe Jerome always had it in him; he’s organized a cult of his own after all, Bruce remembers faintly. It’s so easy to forget he’s older and more capable than he makes himself out to be.

“How long was I out?“ he asks. His own voice sounds out of place, like a whisper torn from a stranger’s throat. Swallowing doesn’t hurt him, but he can’t shake off the feeling of Jerome’s hands yet. How can he though when they‘re still all over him like flies? The clown sure is clingy.

Jerome offers a half-shrug in his position. “Dunno. Two minutes. Or three, I didn’t count _that_.“ His expression is sour. Also kind of helpless, Bruce notes. “Are you, uhm,… alright?“ 

Bruce tilts his head, squinting his eyes. He listens to his inner voice. “I guess so.“ He brings a hand to his neck and checks for any lasting impressions, clears his throat. He could have used a mirror for pressure marks, elsewise there’s nothing but a little soreness to go with every swallow. “A chokehold is nothing compared to other encounters I’ve had. You‘ve stopped soon enough before it could cause real damage.“ In the deadpan silence of the cell, this almost sounds like a mocking attempt at praise. Jerome knits his brows. His shoulders are stiff, muscles tensed. He looks more of a statue than man.

“Ah.“ His thumb lowers to the corner of Bruce’s mouth as he mulls over the input, and stays there unmoved, reluctant to decide whether he should curl it up or down. “Heh, got carried away, I guess. One moment, I thought —“ He hangs his head, almost hitting Bruce’s chin by accident. A short burst of incredulous laughter jumps off his tongue, echoing unpleasantly off the walls. It’s no laughter Bruce’s familiar with, and though it shakes him up a little, the change of attitude rather stuns than alarms him. He searches his gaze and is met by a certain kind of forlorness, dangerous as deep, in his dilated pupils, the green rim around them fairly pale. He’s seen it before; once, at the diner. When he talked about his uncle. And what no one had spared him from.

“Jerome?“

Jerome rubs over the bow of Bruce’s lower lip as if memorizing the shape. Then he reaches behind his head and pulls him into an embrace so tight Bruce can feel the heart in his chest hammer against his own. He gasps, clueless what to make of it. He’s still painfully aware of their nakedness and the heated, unbearable way skin rubs over skin while Jerome’s fingers dig hollows under his shoulder blade like he’s trying to reach beneath the flesh and right through his ribcage to gain something precious. He’s about to raise his voice when the clown buries his face in the crook of his neck and inhales his scent. A drag of lips follows, implicating the shadow of kisses along the goosebumps his raised hackles shed. “I didn‘t mean to,“ he says, in an impossibly soft voice he shouldn’t be capable of anymore, with his stabbed windpipe and deranged mind. It sounds tired. “Not this time, I promise. I really… really didn’t. I got so lost in you.“

Bruce’s mouth parts, but no words come out. He stares genuinely surprised into the camera. It’s still pointed at them, running, the bluish lens a wakeful eye in the shade, the red light next to it the color of blood. Jerome seems to have forgotten about it; he’s shaking slightly. Bruce just remembers to call it back to his mind when the gears in his brain grind painfully together.

“Why should I believe that? You’ve tried often enough.“ Jerome gives a weak laugh. One of his arms loosens and his fingers draw chaotic patterns across Bruce’s lower back. Focusing his attention on them, Bruce might have made out the letters of his name. A heart and an arrow too, perhaps, both ragged down in the middle.

“Yeah. Why should you? I’m just the psychopathic asshat. The perfect scapegoat,“ he mumbles. Bruce knits his brows. Wait.

“Jerome, I never called you a scapegoat.“ Jerome snorts. His breath tickles. It has Bruce on edge. Something’s off here. Something feels out of tune. “No. You don’t need that shtick. But I was theirs, y’know? Always. It was easier this way.“ He pauses, the tendons bulging underneath his neck like ropes. Bruce can see them. If he’d bowed a little lower, he’d have been able to touch them with his lips and measure their strain. Then, again, rolling off a broken record: “I didn’t mean to. But tell _them_ that.“ His humorless smirk bites into Bruce’s flesh like the finest blade. “Tell _him_ that, Bruce. And he’ll twist your words like he did mine.“

It is then it occurs to Bruce this isn’t the first time Jerome has uttered these words nor that he’s waiting for them to be refuted.

Refuted by whom? Bruce answers the question himself. Refuted. By everybody.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_"He’s got no single spark of decency left in his body," Jeremiah said, just when they both decided to change the subject of it. Back when they were both working on the reactor and Bruce thought he had finally found a sane friend of his age._

_As with every relationship starting out, he was slightly in awe of everything Jeremiah said or did at that time. He didn’t become suspious of anything, not even when Jeremiah’s otherwise so controlled, mildly modeled face twisted in anger, and he looked deceptively like his brother once he started talking about him. Bruce was merely careful not to point this out to him while they arranged the cables. "He can't feel nor conceive any affection - no real one, at least. Guilt is alien to him, as is the remorse that comes with it, or the fear. When I think about it, this might’ve well been so since childhood. He was…“ His eyes glazed over with an emotion Bruce forgot to decipher because he thought them pretty; pretty and clever and_ normal _. He watched Jeremiah push his glasses further up his nose, and the ceiling light dipped them milky-white. A_ perfect _sigh. “He was just born bad, Bruce.“ He turned his head at him. A shy smile adorned his lips. They were rosy, inviting even. They didn’t need to be painted over. (They’d probably already been at that point.) One of his hands_ – gloved in smooth black leather, Bruce remembers now – _wandered to his throat, a fingertip brushing against his Adam’s apple._

 _“I’m so glad you survived him. I know firsthand how difficult it is to escape his clutch, and you did it twice. Once he’s got you in it, he drains the life from you till you are no more. Like… a banshee. Or the ball python our mother used to tame.“ The smile grew sweeter, with the slightest hint of teeth breaking through his red_ red _mouth. “It doesn’t lack a certain irony that our mother earned her keep by charming wild animals while the most dangerous one ate and slept under her care. She’d have been safer in her snake’s embrace that night.“ He hummed before he turned his attention back to the machine. It gradually increased in shape and power. The quick progress pleased him. “Even his tears were fabricated,“ he said at last. “He could never cry and mean it.“_

 

 

* * *

 

 

Bruce's gaze remains fixed on the camera while Jerome's body envelops him like a heavily breathing tourniquet, mumbling illogical shreds of _mean_ into the half-quiet near his sweat-stained curls. There‘s a trail of wetness running down behind his ear. It rolls over his neck, his left shoulder blade and close to his spine like a solemn but ardent reminder of death. And pain. Always… pain.

Jeremiah never told Bruce about the things _he_ did.

“It’s alright,“ he hears himself whisper. And no, it isn’t, not under normal circumstances. But none of them are particularly normal in what they are or do, and to this very day Bruce never would’ve guessed Jerome Valeska could do anything _without meaning to_. It leaves the question whether anything Jeremiah said about his circus past has been true to begin with. In fact, he didn‘t say much. Only what Jerome supposedly had done to him. Bruce raises his hand and rakes his fingers through Jerome’s tousled hair, feeling his unnaturally hot skull, the manic brain boiling and rotting beneath. Jerome tenses as if he’d expect a blow to follow, anything to wreak vengeance on him, but he seems to have no intention of letting Bruce go either, and the havoc he anticipates fails to appear.

“Jerome,“ Bruce says carefully, the name somewhat fragile on his tongue now, a vial of neglected trauma bound to break the minute it falls off the tip. “What was the most dangerous animal your mother ever kept? What was its name? Tell me.“

Only silence and harsh-shrugging shoulders. That’s answer enough.

_No one helped me. Ever._

_And why?_ The realization clogs like blood between his teeth.

(Because Jeremiah told them not to. Because Jeremiah cried out first, pledging his truth by saying Jerome never had any.)

Bruce’s eyes narrow to slits.

Gently but surely, his hands run over Jerome's upper arms, urging him to loosen his clasp. Surprisingly enough, Jerome does so without offering his complaints this time. With his hands sunk down to his hips, Bruce erects his upper body so he can take in the clown’s face in all its shattered glory. It’s become strangely crumbled and pale, like a sheet that’s been folded in the wrong direction too often. Jerome’s eyes are overflowed with emotions and left colorless, the irregular wreath of his scars prominent as ever in the shade. Bruce hesitates only briefly when he cradles the numb expression etched inside them between his palms, and tilts the mess upwards to have it meet his calm gander.

“Focus on me,“ he orders. “Only me, nothing else… the rest isn't important right now.“ Jerome does this too, whereas the reaction’s slower this time. Bruce rewards him by leaning forward till their foreheads touch. A distinct jab of relief, he observes how Jerome’s lids lower, then close in response. The tension that captures his muscles dims down to a tremor to manage, the atmosphere around them breathes out some of its pressure and settles back down with a more pleasant air. It has Bruce smile.

Strange enough he smiles because of Jerome Valeska. Strange enough it’s a real one.

He trusts Jeremiah will see this too. He trusts Orwell’s cheap-versioned Big Brother records each action and secret they reveal here, and that the last lines of moonlight will cater to each.

“I’m here. I’m okay. It would be enough to let me breathe now and then.“ His voice brims with a warmth he usually reserves for his visits to his parents’ grave. “I’m not made of porcellain, but you can’t bust me open like a damn piñata either.“ 

As hoped, this elicits a chuckle from Jerome’s crooked mouth. He looks up, faint glint of life crawling back to his pupils. The rebound of his voice fills the room with a jagged, rusty echo. Bruce tries to stick its frantic sequence in his mind for later reference.

“Yeah. I can’t... kill you here. With no audience,“ Jerome blurts. He shakes his head. “Hell, I don‘t know if I can kill you at all. It’s like I’m trying and trying, but –“ His chuckle turns to hysterical jibs of laughter, and he clings to Bruce like a shipwrecked sailor, nails impaling his flesh with tiny lovebites. “I — you just looked so gorgeous, and next thing I know is you lay there, limp like wax and I couldn‘t.“ He halts. “And the best you come up with is fucking _piñatas_. Seriously, Bruce, talk about bad jokes.“ The laughter prevails after, grows explosive and reeled. And suddenly, Bruce thinks it‘s the best and saddest sound he‘s ever heard.

It doesn’t take long till he opens his own mouth. Though less eager and more demure, he laughs too, laughs with him. He can't help it; it bursts out of him. Nothing about this situation is funny. But this isn’t about being funny, not even about the sex or pissing off Jeremiah. This is about something else.

It might take them both ages to figure out what exactly, but as the saying goes; better late than never.

He leans forward and kisses the man who cut, kidnapped, tied and nearly strangulated him. Jerome‘s voice ebbs down to what might have been a sob or the beginning of a scream if let out. It‘s a small sound, stuck between being born and dying out the second it aims to be heard.

 _He who prides himself on laughing in the face of the person who’d eviscerate him alive was afraid he’d killed me by accident._ The thought is a paradox back and forth, a curse, yet soft and fleeting as a snowflake melting in Bruce‘s hair as he parts his mouth to take in Jerome‘s taste like he craves it. _And even now he‘s troubled by the implication. Troubled by… me. What shall I make of this? Is there something that I missed?_

Jerome remains fairly unresponsive to his advances, but the bulge in his lap hasn’t ceased much and his rigor doesn’t fool anybody. Bruce makes sure to shift more of his weight on it as he tilts his head to deepen the kiss, running his tongue along his puffy bottom lip to beg for entrance. He doesn’t get it.

Sighing, his hands slide off his cheeks and wrap around Jerome’s throat. Instead of using pressure, his thumbs caress the outline of his jaw and the carotid with its heightened pulse. The Adam’s apple underneath deems a perfect copy of Jeremiah’s in look, but touching it is a different matter. When Jerome refuses to react further, one of Bruce‘s hands close around it while the other travels lower to nudge gently against the ugly, red wedge Theo Galavan left him with at the benefit. He earns a twitch. Hm. Interesting.

That’s one difference, Bruce ponders while he reaches behind and twists a grunting Jerome back on his hair to keep him in position. Jeremiah doesn’t have scars from what Bruce knows. He’s a clean slate where Jerome’s a mess. He bets on silence where Jerome will shout for all he has. Offering a last lingering peck on the stretched corner of his mouth, Bruce’s lips reach higher, ghost over the small rest of smooth skin and the gentle arch of a cheekbone.

The very moment they graze the verges stitched near Jerome’s ear, the sad clown’s heartfelt swear accommodates the act, and his fingers itch to grab him harder.

“Stop it, or I might kill you for real.“ The threat’s terribly raw on his tongue but his voice is thick with a yearning that has Bruce weak in the knees. It must be horrifying to keep these both souls in one body without splitting. No wonder he relies on the voices.

Ignoring him, he licks a wet strap across the stitched rim underneath Jerome’s eye and anticipates the nails that rake his sides in turn, practically _hears_ their need to leave a cartography of bruises in their wake, mark him, defile him, engrave him. He grinds down on Jerome’s erection to encourage whatever they wish to do. It throbs in answer, heavy and hot, and he bites his lip to stifle the sounds threatening to come out and ruin him at last. Regardless of what Jerome says, it‘s carved in his nature to be at least tempted by the possibility while simultaneously wanting to steal jewelry or bomb the town before he fucks him senseless. He needs to keep this in mind; either he survives him or he doesn‘t.

Somehow, this fact comforts him. It’s got a fifty-fifty percentage to it he can work with.

He looks directly into the camera before focusing back on the beast he‘s sitting on, averse, destructive, and pleading in one. A beast he might not tame, never truly, but calm if need be. Which makes it almost lovable, in a way. His features soften. He understands now.

 _It must hurt you, Jeremiah. To see I’d choose_ **_this_ ** _over you and your fine charade. The imperfect clone you never wanted, your ticket out of the mud; the wreckage you left behind to strive for everything you could never have elsewise. And now, of all the things you could buy, bribe and break to get, he has_ **_me_ ** _. And he hates sharing like he always did. Like you did._

_God, I hope it hurts you bad._

This time he seeks a kiss, more tender, motherly, weaker in approach, Jerome almost topples him with the force of reciprocating it, and Bruce is out of his mind enough to allow him to.

His hands reaching up and winding angrily in Bruce’s curls, Jerome’s tongue slips into the hot cavern of his waiting mouth, wet, warm and angry enough to grip his jaw and crush it at any given moment. Bruce closes his eyes to relish the sensation, the clash and chemicals mingling as their tongues brush, align and taste. It fills his system with a rush he should fear but can’t. It might kill him, but it’s good **.** So good it has him forget who he‘s supposed to be in favor of what he never was. For this one night at least.

Brave with impatience, he presses his chest flush to Jerome‘s and reaches down to palm his clothed cock. Pleased, he drinks in the startled groan he gets.

“You stopped,“ he whispers, his thumb wiping away Jerome’s second tear that glues forgotten and smeared to his lashes. He squeezes him harder. “You thought you couldn’t, but you did. You can stop again, if only for me. Or this.“ Guiding one of his broad hands out of his hair and forward, he splays it across his heart to emphasize the statement. At this point the blush that sneaks up his face and neck isn’t embarrassing, it‘s a reaction bound to happen; one he wants the camera to record and copy tenfold. “Try if you need to. You caught me off guard – next time, I won’t make it that easy. Besides, I believe you.“ He pauses, carrying the words like marbles. “I believe you.“

(Wanna know the scary thing about it? For once, he does.)

Jerome gapes at him in both partial defiance and desire. The old matron of mistrust raises her ugly head in the implacable train of his mouth, but it’s more of an afterthought now than an obstacle to overcome.

“You... really?“ Bruce smirks, and if the clown hasn’t fallen for him already, he should have by now.

“You aren’t like your brother, right? You don’t need his cheap tricks. You wouldn’t lie to me.“ Before Jerome takes chance to answer, Bruce kisses him mute. “You wouldn’t dare,“ he repeats, puffs of shared breath their mere illusion of a barrier. He’s only a little patronizing in tone.

Jerome stares, gaze impenetrable. He tries to spot the illusion Bruce portrays, but he finds nothing because there is none. This has to be the joke of the century. And he didn’t even make it.

“What game are you playing, kid?“ he asks eventually.

“Why, our game, I guess,“ Bruce tilts his head, brows furrowed. An ocean in his eyes which depths either promise shelter or traps, but is drowning all the same. “And this time, I intend to win, _darling_.“

Jerome is silent. Deadly. Then, he huffs, and his eyes narrow to slits.

“We’ll see about that.“

He grabs for Bruce’s flagged length and gives it a brutal tug. Bruce’s eyes widen, the action rippling through his body like a sparking wire dipped in a puddle of water. He grunts in surprise and bucks up into the grip before he even realizes what he‘s doing. The growl Jerome emits in reply rubs like sandpaper over his skin. 

“I don’t know if you’re putting this up for the tape alone or not,“ he says, gravel in the letters. His palm grounds in the small of Bruce’s back as he ups the pace, agonizingly so. Bruce bites his lip at the dry, steady friction and the hard, hot pressure keeping him close. “But if you think I‘ll let you go after this, you‘re wrong. I wanted this to be a one of a kind thing, but... that won‘t work with you saying such sweet things, love.“ His thumb circles the weeping glans and Bruce sighs, not knowing anymore either if this is for camera‘s sake or wedged from a far darker place. They’ve played themselves.

“I know it damn well,“ he hisses through gritted teeth.He thrusts against him and into his unforgiving graspas much as he’s able to. His short-cut pants skim Jerome’s earlobe in their urgency, arms locked around his neck. “I’ll let you in on a little secret — I missed you on the streets. You‘re way more… more fun to chase than your broth– _ah_.“ 

“Aw. Am I now?“ Jerome’s grip tightens, his tone grown cold and low. Bruce turns his head aside, blushed to the roots. He’s fairly aware how these unfortunate eyes follow him, stitched to his unblemished lips. They set his body on fire; they always did, no matter the context they found themselves in during the years. His fingers dig into Jerome’s shoulders, feeling out the numerous elevations and dents there.

He did have a hunch there’d be scars. It wasn’t something much to question regarding the files. His nails digs deeper, plastering his marks over a past better be forgotten.

“I’ve got no reason to lie either. Not anymore.“ His arousal pairs with the wish to regain some degree of dignity, and frankly, that’s a terrible combination. He leans back to look Jerome dead in the eye, then up and down, mouth parted. “Let‘s find out if you‘re more fun to fuck too.“

Jerome smiles. He pushes him flat on his back and Bruce’s view turns upside down. He barely finds time to register what’s happening or get comfortable on the mattress when the redhead kneels and hauls him down to suck one of his balls into his mouth. With one hand continuing to stroke him, the other leaves blazing fingerprints on his inner thigh to keep him still.

It isn’t necessary. Bruce stiffens on his own, eyes wide and unblinking as they stare at the stained ceiling. He tries to progress the feeling as he claws the sheets and forces himself to keep his trembling legs open while Jerome‘s tongue dips into the folds of his sack, licking and savoring the salty skin there. The sensation is strange, private and pleasant, and it has Bruce‘s lips tingle with a gasp the very second Jerome‘s tongue drags upward and slathers thick, glistening strings of saliva across the sensitive underside of his half-hard cock.

Jerome has called the act a little experiment of his earlier, and experimental he is. He toys with Bruce’s cock almost lovingly, attempts different approaches to make out what has him itch and what turns him into a writhing mess in seconds before he pulls him back to nib at his hip bone instead, then do it all over again. Occasionally, his hands reach up, his palms smoothing over a lean stomach and the soft, rosy nipples above. He pinches them for a twitch and a stuttered moan to compliment a particulary hard suck at the head. Bruce let‘s him play him like a violine and it‘s a music Jerome never tires of while he maps the outline of his shaft with wet sultry butterfly kisses.

Soon enough, despite all the _not-to’s_ his pride has made him promise beforehand, Bruce’s whimpers reveberate off the bare walls. It has Jerome chuckle in this evil way of his.

“What was that? I don’t think I heard you,“ he purrs. Bruce would have kicked him if he hadn’t have enough trouble not to come from just that. Instead, he pushes his pelvis up in demand, uncaring about how needy he acts.

“More.“ Throwing his head back, he rolls his hips. “God, don’t stop.“ It has Jerome laugh.

“Quite the flatterer once you’re in the mood.“ He pumps him a little faster, generously smearing the precome that’s started to leak from the tip, welling in the deliciously wondrous mewl that follows. “But not too wrong either. I _have_ been called Messiah after all.“

“Shut up.“ But he bends towards Jerome as he presses clumsy kisses to his lower abdomen, followed by teasing bites around the navel. The bites aren’t sharp enough to break skin, but will sure as hell bloom a corona of bruises in the morning.

“I will if you do first,“ he chides. Both know Bruce won’t. He can’t hide here, can’t fabricate control over himself since his body conforms to different laws than his brain. He looks away.

“We’ll be caught when we’re too loud,“ he says muffled. Shepard rams back into his memory though he’s but a blunt shape outside this room that’s become a dreadful dimension of their own. Jerome snorts.

“So? Fuck them. I wanna hear you.“ Bruce says nothing in return, ears laced pink. Jerome smacks his lips. There’s a halt in movement, mouth lingering on smooth skin.

“I’ll have to make ya then,“ he sighs, his breath raising goosebumps. Bruce only swallows.

The minute Jerome takes him back into his mouth, he bites his fist, stubborn and feverish enough to at least try and be quiet. He shuts his eyes with as much force as he can manage, thinking the blindness would help him to keep the noises in check.

Bruce has become a creature of the night during past months. It doesn’t turn him into a vampire per se, but he caught his eyes hurting soon as Alfred suggested him to eat his breakfast on the porch, the stark sun streaming in like a lance (luckily for him, Gotham shrouds in clouds often enough). As sensitive his senses have become to daylight and the business following it, they‘re nothing compared to what the darkness holds.

Even without his mask, it‘s become his steady companion in lonely nights. Now, however, it hardly makes it easier not to focus on the relentless suction, the heat and the murmur (is it a melody? Yes, it is. The bastard hums a song to go with the act) that tantalizes his nerves. Feeling without actually seeing Jerome nibble at his glans like a lollipop, is a challenging experience — not so much about what he does, but _how_ he does it. When he makes it a game to lick up each drop of precumsoon it threatens to fall from the slit, Bruce bites down so hard he draws blood, shaking from head to toe. He‘s ashamed to find the metallic taste only builds his libido up further.

Defeated too soon, he cracks an eye open, peering south, and has trouble not to moan out loud at the sight of Jerome‘s lips drawing a perfectly ruined, pink-ragged ring to brush over his shaft.Some wild auburn strands have fallen into his forehead, uncared for. They don’t distract him from the task at hand, but add a nefarious, insatiable touch to the scenery.

Watching him, Bruce cries out in surprise nonetheless the moment Jerome swallows his whole girth, the hot cavern of his mouth engulfing the base of his cock until the tip nudges at the back of his throat. Bruce’s toes curl in at the added tightness and contraction. Overwhelmed tears prick in the corners of his eyes. God. _God, this is really happening_. And it‘s better than he ever dared to picture in the vacant space of his manor and dreams.

Jerome‘s procedure is sloppy and filthy and without rhythm, but he practically drools over him as he bobs his head. Quickening his pace till he shoves him down his throat, his tongue endlessly glides up and down his cock. Bruce turns dizzy from the white-hot pleasure. All he can think of is to rut into this hellish mouth and bruise it with the force of his thrusts wouldn’t the hands on his hips restrain him in their iron grip while spreading him apart. He forgets to stiffle the sounds he makes and presses his pelvis up best as possible as he gives into what he‘s offered. Aching for something to hold, his hands fly down and get a grip on fiery red hair. He tears at the strands whenever the sharp edges of Jerome’s canines scrape across his base. Jerome so much as purrs at that, and the vibrations go straight to the liquid fire pooling in Bruce‘s belly.

He didn’t even fathom it could be like that. It‘s not far from being eaten alive, not how Jerome does it, and it’s glorious.

It takes mere minutes to get him close to spilling, but he desperately tries to draw it out. Jerome’s a showman through and through; he won‘t let him off the hook easily just because he comes too fast, and he can‘t imagine what else Jerome has in mind if he does. He’s afraid he might not be averse to any of it. 

He‘s almost there, just a moment more, _yes, just a little_ –

His cock glides out of Jerome‘s mouth with a wet, obnoxious pop. And Bruce almost sobs at the loss.

He looks down to catch the image of Jerome‘s eyes on him, gaze black as tar, mouth too red and close as sin. It sends shivers down his sweat-clad spine. He swallows, heart hammering everywhere but where it’s supposed to do.

“What?“ he croaks, aware how he sounds like a petulant child. “Being bored already?“

Saying that, he must make quite the picture; perspiring neck, desperate face, a panting facade with hardened nipples and an infuriating blush that colors his flesh in shades of cornrose and rouge. His erection, dark and blood-filled, drips with spit between his splayed thighs in its urgent, heavy state.

Jerome grins at him. The moon might have catered to it, but Bruce could have sworn to recognize the tiniest hint of affection.

“You never bore me.“ He kisses Bruce’s tip in a mock gesture of care while he stares up to him, his pupils black holes cut out of his skull. As green rims bore into teary blue, he makes a show out of drawing lavish patterns down the swollen pinkish head with his tongue, licking and sucking him back down with vigor. The stretch of his mouth and the carnal hunger in his gaze have Bruce bite his lower lip so hard this time it splits. Droplets of red run down his chin. He keens. No torture his ass. This is agony.

“Jerome—“

Jerome’s lips reach up andsilence him before he can finish whatever foolish thing he’d have been foolish enough to say. He tastes himself on them, the salty, bitter essence his being captures. Their kisses quickly turn ardent in their fervor, bodies intertwined and needy. Bruce can’t compare them to anything he’s experienced before; all he knows is he would prefer them to last longer whenever Jerome pulls away only to dive in again, like a boat in heavy sea. He brings Bruce’ hand to his mouth to suck the blood from its back, then laps up the metallic remains trickling down this chin. The red streaks his cheek, leaving him feral. Bruce thinks, for once, the color suits him. He runs his fingers through red red hair as Jerome bends to pepper his throat and clavicle with kisses. Each is a light sting of a needle plunged into tenous flesh, and will reap marks round and bright like poppies from their stead.

 _Well now he’s got his damn marks,_ is all Bruce thinks before Jerome noses down his chest and finds new toys to play with. Bruce half-heartedly tries to push him off soon his tongue grazes one of his nipples, but is curbed by Jerome’s hands keeping his arms above his head. Bruce whimpers when he suckles on the softened nub, yelps when he takes it between his teeth and bites down with relish.

„You said you wouldn‘t bite,“ Bruce protests weakly. Jerome hums.

“You like it,“ he points out, leaving one nip to attend to its twin.

 **“** I don’t – ah. **“** Brucewreathesunderhim. **“** Stop – stop that!“ Jeromeonlybites himharder, burying the dents of his teeth into his salt-sweet skin.

“But you taste so good,“ he purrs. It earns him a sullen look from the boy. He snickers to himself.

“Yeah, keepwatchingmewiththatpretty pout. MaybeI’llletyoucumlike that.“He licks his lips,eachwordathreatandapromise. “Iwantyoutoremember _exactly_ who fucked your brains out first. Understood?“

Bruce’s mouth runs dry. Before the embarrassment can take him in fully, Jerome crawls down and swallows him back to the hilt, bobbing his head in violent fashion. He slightly gags as he does, but when Bruce attempts to ease himself out, he only throws him back on the matress with a strength that’s far from human capacity, and smothers his face between his legs.

His greed hits Bruce like an anvil, shattering and steady. With tremors of panic and arousal tumbling in his chest, he grabs fistfuls of Jerome’s hair and twists, the sensation too raw to comprehend for his mind. It’s too fast, too good, and all he can pray for is to take it without blacking out again, this time from the primal pleasure coursing through his veins. Never before he’s felt this vulnerable and exhilarated in his life. Never before he has felt this wanted and cursed by this want. He couldn‘t stop if he wanted to. And he doesn’t want to not want it anymore.

Jerome takes the hint. While aparticularyhard suck, two fingers dip between his cheeks and nudge at the rim of his prim, puckered hole. They’re slicked up cold with a fluid Bruce barely identifies as spit before they both shove deeply past and into him at once, rummaging his insides. He clenches around them in shock, the sudden stretch strange and burning. The unknown sensation mingled with ecstasy drives Bruce right to a shuddering climax. “Jerome“, he stutters, “I-I think I‘m –“ 

Jerome hums, his throat contracting around Bruce’s cock with his fingers curling in, and that seals the deal.

Bruce cums with a breathless howl that has Jerome’s name woven in it, and tears falling free from his cheeks. His back arches off the mattress as the tension‘s release roars through every monocule of his body. Jerome gulps him down to the last drop, his eyes never leaving his face. Bruce trashes and wails as he‘s milked dry. He pulls his hair till he’s close to tear it off his scalp, accompanied by choked up pleas and the repeated slur of his name, but Jerome’s unrelenting in what he wants. After what seems like bitter-sweet eternity, he is kind enough to release him at last with a lewd squelch that resounds in the empty room like a whip. It slaps across Bruce’s face and snaps him back to reality long enough to have him acknowledge the camera again.

It doesn’t look as scrutinizing as it did before. A ridiculous thing, in fact. Bruce wonders why he ever bothered to stay in its center.

He takes a long-needed breath, his lungs and face burning like wildfire, limbs bathed in sweat. The air smells pregnant with sex. Jerome scuttles up and surveys him like he‘s moulded from gold.

Bruce stirs yet doesn’t prevent it when he reaches out and takes the tear that dares to reach the sharp curve of his jaw. He follows the glistening pad of his thumb disappear between his lips, sees them suck the salt from it and dwell on the taste. 

Bruce remembers then. Ah. That’s why.

Jerome embeds his scarred cheek on his collarbone and laggardly nibbles at the chain of bruises he‘s left there, eager to add smaller marks as he goes. Jibs of pain lock with the sensation of a playful, pliant mouth and the mild tug of teeth till Bruce can‘t distinguish one from the other. Boneless from the daze of ecstasy, he sighs and lets him do as he pleases. 

He recalls the last minutes — were they even minutes? — as if in trance. Time loses meaning when he‘s with Jerome, he already got a hunch of that before. Is the hour up already? Will the guard knock any moment and have him frantically reach for his torn clothes? He should care yet doesn‘t. It’s hard to care about anything when the sheets are nylon-thin and stick to his skin like paste while the pulsing hulk of warmth on top of him lulls his senses.

Which is why he catches the next words of said hulk like a memory buried under rubble, foggy and distorted.

“What?“ He learns that forming words is a languid task after sex. “What was that?“

Gossamer and possessive, a combination which components Jerome seems to wield well as an axe by chance, his fingers trail the contour of his waist.

 "I said ‘Miah was the reason for my fall. He‘s my legacy and the curse that should’ve haunted Gotham even after I die. I wanted him to burn it all down, including himself, including you. And me.“ His voice proves hoarser than usual, but deeply sated from an ache Bruce wasn‘t aware he’s been carrying around with himself. He snickers, lips shine wet from saliva and last traces of blood, not decent enough to get rid of them. He’s full of himself, which is as good of a promise as any to Bruce he’ll be full of _him_ soon too. “At least that was the plan before Jimbo hurled me up from that damn roof. Now, however, things have changed.“ He props his chin on Bruce’s chest, quirking a brow.

“I thought he’d be enough to bring this city to its knees, but he‘s too caught up in this little affair between you both to actually make a change.“ His hand finds and roams over the firm cusp of Bruce’s ass. “I saw you first. I _wanted_ you first. He hates that.“

"You’d really have left me to him that easily?“ Bruce can’t help but sow in the implication of disappointment. Jerome snorts.

"Oh no. No, no, there was nothing _easy_ about that,“ he murmurs. His lips thin out. “Ah – it doesn’t matter anymore. The plan… doesn’t matter. You‘ll never be free of me as long as I live.“

The last words carry an unbearingly soft timbre inside them. They have Bruce’s heart drum in his throat. He says nothing at first since he doesn‘t trust his own voice. Only when Jerome‘s prolonged nibbles turn to kisses and licks that aim lower, he painstakingly supports his upper body on his elbows. The rest of him wobbles like pudding, but his gaze is ironclad enough to have Jerome stop and bestow his unwavering attention upon him. 

Moreoever, he marvels at him, eyes dark and glow-faded like broken christmas lights in summer. These eyes are the most demoniac to ever come to life in Gotham, and their reflection tells Bruce he’s worth the world. He can’t bear the intensity and looks down on his own heaving, kiss-bitten chest in shame. Down this lane he also catches sight of the now sodden front of Jerome’s trousers. He gulps with rekindling want at that and maybe he lied to himself earlier. Maybe he’s a whore too.

He doesn‘t need a mirror to know he’s blushed crimson and damnfully fragile now, splayed out as weak prey to careless hunters. Nor does he need to be a genius to sense how pleased Jerome is to have him like this, all to himself. He practically brims with the pride of ownership. Bruce lets him.

“You should have never put him on such a high pedestal,“ he says, words cracked from the afterglow of his orgasm, yet loud enough to be carried by the heavy air still pregnant with the musk of sex. Gazing directly into the camera‘s unbothered focus, he lowers his lids. He turns back to Jerome, a twisted sort of spite in his eyes. “What can he do you haven‘t done or mapped out yet? Aren't you the elder one? He should stand in awe of you, not the other way round." Each question he breathes into the oppressively warm void with a taunt, aware or not. Either way, a part of him’s conscious he may regret them deeply soon as they flow and gain melody. It doesn’t matter now.

A variety of expressions rolls down Jerome‘s face before they settle on a crossroad between disapproval, consternation and a deep-seated principal of lust edged within. Bruce lays his hand on a scarred cheek and isn’t surprised when it presses back against the contact by the second and tantalizingly rubs against his wet, smooth palm. Like a cat giving off its smell to mark its possessions, he notes. A small smile tugs on his lips. Operating Jerome Valeska mood swings in his favor isn’t easy. Moreover, it isn’t right, let alone morally. But it isn’t impossible either.

_I can‘t forgive him for what he is. Nothing changes the things he’s done and will do. But for this, I won‘t have to._

_I won‘t have to._

“I ain‘t putting him on a pedestal,“ Jerome says, voice thick from emotion he can’t handle, whatever it may be. Bruce looks at him thoughtfully. He lifts his heavy limbs and curls into Jerome’s side, ignoring the small moment he stiffens, then settles for the action just as quickly.

“Where do you put him then?“ he mumbles. Jerome snickers. He awkwardly pats his head.

“Dunno. Into a grave?“ Bruce actually laughs, a velvet sound in the darkness, well-kept in the trenchof Jerome’s collarbone. He should have seen that one coming.

“You know what? I think you will.“ He pulls him down for another kiss while he reaches down to unbotton his pants. He makes sure his voice echoes clearly in the room, drowning out Jerome's gasp as he slips his fingers under the waistband of his soiled boxers.Two, five, ten more minutes. They won’t hurt nobody. Nobody but themselves.

“I think I’d like to see you try.“

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello to everyone who‘s been brave enough to reach the end of this :)
> 
> Since university has me in a chokehold already, I‘ve decided to end this fic here. There might be an extra chapter to come one day when I have time again, but right now I‘m simply not capable of doing any or work any further on this — I apologize for that. I also hope that you, HelmetParty, are not disappointed that there‘s only been fellatio between these two. Hopefully I could fulfill your prompt despite this.
> 
>  
> 
> Inspiration songs:
> 
> Our Love is a Burning Garden - Alec Baldwin https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Usp88Dnltrg&list=PLZ-QxD8_O6saL5VoEuWkChgglT9_-1EP0&index=22
> 
> Love Lies - Khalid, Normani : https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-9hL0J2YUco
> 
> benny blanco, Halsey & Khalid - Eastside : https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q5XxAD0E1us
> 
> Bazzi & Camila Cabello - Beautiful : https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m1PN7Ge19pw
> 
> Space Bound - Eminem : https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XJ2bjStuwyY

**Author's Note:**

> Yo *waves* 
> 
> As an end note: comments are always appreciated XD I like hearing your opinions on my stuff, so don't worry to hold back please. I'm curious as heck :3
> 
>  
> 
> Songs for Inspiration :
> 
> Billie Eilish - Ocean Eyes (Astronomyy Remix) : https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v9U0qMHHkSo
> 
> Panic Room - Au/Ra : https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9Wihk3isqjM
> 
> iNSaNiTY - CheezItsAreYummy (Nightcore Version) : https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g_f2lWpYTbk


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